


Hard-to-Reach Places

by CrescentMoonDemon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Shower Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrescentMoonDemon/pseuds/CrescentMoonDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate comes back filthy after a fruitless recon mission and needs a little help getting clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard-to-Reach Places

Tailgate had nothing against organic worlds. He loved seeing life in its rawest forms, with all its colorful diversity and spectacular creations. It was when Rodimus decided to pursue one of his many outlandish theories on the Knights of Cybertron and drag half the crew through the deepest, darkest, dirties corners of said organic worlds that made Tailgate's perspective take a turn for the sour. Sure, he'd been excited to hear Rodimus assign him and a few others to explore a particular band of the planet's jungle region. Tailgate saw it as an opportunity to finally get off the ship for a while, give his peds a much needed stretch, and admire the scenery. And it was—for about the first half-cycle. Up until he got separated from Chromedome and the others, chased by the indigenous life, mired chassis-deep in swamp muck, had a tree fall on his head, and fell off a cliff. The same cliff. Twice.  


Tailgate was the very last back to the ship when Rodimus said the search was a bust and called it off. Naturally, he was also the last one left in the wash racks, because when everyone else was perfectly clean and relaxing over their cubes in Swerve's bar, he was still picking out leaves and twigs and trying to angle the spray jet just right to get at the patches of grime wedged in uncomfortable places. In retrospect, he really should have asked one of the others for help.  


He was stuck trying to angle the wire brush at the right angle to get at a clump of dirt lodged between his back plating but couldn't arrange his arm properly. 

Never once had Tailgate thought himself inflexible, but then again he'd never been put in a situation to find out.  


"Oh come on," Tailgate whined, unable to get his arm high enough to reach over his hood. "Of all the rotten—!"  


He struggled and whined and moved around in a circle as if it would somehow miraculously fix the problem. Eventually, he gave up and moved on and just hoped the water jet would work it out on its own. For a moment, he considered whether it would be worth it to comm one of the others, but he didn't want to be known as that one mech who was too small to even properly clean himself. Primus, at least Rewind had Chromedome for help when he needed it!  


The hydraulic hiss of the door interrupted his griping and Tailgate was surprised to see Cyclonus step in, back from whatever assignment Rodimus had given him. He brightened instantly. At last! They locked optics for about half a second and Tailgate started to speak, but Cyclonus turned his back and went right to the complete opposite end of the washroom. The words died in Tailgate's vocalizers and he stood frozen under the constant spray as another faucet squeaked on and stole away his much needed water pressure.  


Oh, sure. Like Cyclonus would actually be willing to help him with such a demeaning task. Still. Tailgate really needed the help. He sucked humid air through his intakes, which really didn't help all that much, utterly unsure as to how to breach a topic like this, and steeled himself regardless.  


"U-um, hey, uh Cyclonus? I know you're busy and all—a-and feel free to say no—but, I, uh, you see, there's this clump of dirt stuck in my back plates and, well, I can't really get to it. I know you're busy right now, so i-it's fine if you don't want to, but I just thought I'd. . . . Y-you know what, nev-never mind. You're busy. Forget I said anything, I-I won't bug you."  


Tailgate shrank under the warm spray beating down on him and wished there was some covert way to repeatedly bash his head into the wall until it knocked him offline—that's how big of an idiot he felt like right then. He held his helm and kicked himself mentally under the noisy patter of water on metal. So stupid, Tailgate, so stupid!  


He almost didn't catch the squeak of the other faucet or the sound of peds striking the deck. About to turn and investigate, a force grabbed him under the lip of his hood and plucked him suddenly off the ground. He yelped and floundered and was deposited roughly atop one of the wash benches nearby. The single-horned mech towered over him, gleaming faintly in the low light; though, taller by a considerably less margin than usual.  


"Where?" Cyclonus said.  


Tailgate panicked and waved his hands.  


"Nononono, th-that's not necessary!" he exclaimed, momentarily thrown by the shift in perspective. "I-I-I can handle it! You don't need to—"  


He stopped at the look Cyclonus was giving him and ducked his head nervously. Tailgate fidgeted with his digits and pointed tentatively over one shoulder.  


He muttered, "Center s-seam. I can't reach it. . . ."  


Cyclonus took the wire brush from his hand and made him turn around. Tailgate flinched and did his best not to move or make any noise as a clawed digit pressed into the seam and located the aforementioned clump.  


"Lean forward," Cyclonus ordered, and he did. It widened the spacing between his plates and enabled Cyclonus to get at it with the brush and jet nozzle.  


Inexpressibly uncomfortable, Tailgate gripped the backrest tightly to keep from squirming. The bristles grazed his inner linings and began to knock away the grime in large portions, washed out by the continuous warm spray. Tailgate couldn't deny the wave of relief he felt as the hindrance began to dissolve, but the surprisingly gentle ministrations were causing heat to pool in strange places. He tried to think of anything to make the feeling go down: Swerve stuffing his face with energon chips, Brainstorm rattling on about science with Perceptor, Ultra Magnus teaching—yeah, that one seemed to help.  


At one point, Cyclonus hmmm'd and Tailgate wanted to ask what it was for when the larger mech's claw dipped suddenly back into the seam. He eep'd shrilly and jumped, earning him a vehement warning to keep still lest those claws get jammed inside. He did his best to obey. Primus, he did his best. That felt alarmingly good. Sharp, thick digits pressed and probed into the sensitive gap and Tailgate clamped one servo over his faceplate, knowing it wouldn't do him any good when it came down to it. The digits stilled briefly, flexed and gripped around something solid, then pulled. A sizeable mass dislodged and Tailgate groaned audibly and slumped over the backrest, trembling with relief. A large hunk of rock clattered off the bench to the floor and the jet of warm water rinsed away what was left inside.  


"Thank you," Tailgate muttered shakily. He started to wriggle out from under Cyclonus's grip but he flattened his palm and held him in place. Tailgate turned his head back warily. "C-Cyclonus?"  


"If you find any more dirt, you're just going to ask for help again," Cyclonus stated, his voice grating. "Where else is there?"  


"N-no, it's okay, really!" Tailgate insisted. He didn't have the circuits to tell Cyclonus it wasn't just because he didn't want to inconvenience him. He wasn't sure if he could handle any more poking and prodding. His panel still felt distressingly hot.  


Tailgate tried again to stand straight but couldn't budge under Cyclonus's considerable strength. "I-I can get the rest of it myself! Honest!"  


"Tailgate," Cyclonus warned, red optics darkening sternly.  


"But-but, really, I. . . ." Tailgate sighed and relented, fingering nervously at the backrest. "I-I think there's still a stick in my hip joint. Left side."  


Mortified as Cyclonus made him sit on top of the backing and realigned the faucet overhead to make use of both hands, Tailgate's Spark pounded and he scrambled for a thought, a word, any word to take his mind off when the larger mech pried his knees apart and creased his brow plates for some unknown reason. Semicolons, semicolons, semicolons, semicolons.  


"A-are you sure this is really necessarEEK!"  


Before he could finish the sentence, Cyclonus slipped two digits into the gap between his thigh and hip and felt around. They pressed into cables, fuel lines, and tender bundles of wiring and sent scrambled jolts of electricity racing through his systems. Ah! Tailgate offlined his optics and clamped one hand over his faceplate again and gripped the backing tightly with the other, desperate to stifle down the sounds his vocalizers were trying to make.  


Semicolonssemicolonssemicol—fragthisisnotwhatIhadinmind but Cyclonus was being extraordinarily gentle with him. Talon-like digits glided across a main energon line and followed it down, coaxing it out of a tangle of circuits that the minibot hadn't even noticed and instantly relieved a persistent ache in his ankle strut. Nn. W-wow. That was . . . nice?  


Continuing deeper, Cyclonus's hand was submerged almost to the knuckle when the little blue mech's cooling vents kicked on, momentarily distraught by how loud it was, but with the hot air in the washroom the venting did nothing to ease the heat spreading behind his panel. Ngh. Primus, he was going to start lubricating at this rate. He prayed Cyclonus wasn't close enough to feel the heat if it was radiating. He put his hand on to the bigger mech's forearm with the intention of pushing it back, but the offending claws only pressed deeper and wrapped around a foreign shape. The seconds of relief when that horrible intrusion was removed were short-lived as a shudder raced up Tailgate's spinal column and a heavy hand ghosted along his thigh.  


Blue optics snapped back online and Cyclonus loomed over him alarmingly close. Red optics met his and the old warrior nuzzled forward into Tailgate's neck cables, nibbling them in his lip plates and collecting rivulets of running water with his glossa and swallowing them down. Tailgate gasped and whined shrilly, blunt fingers scraping shakily at the purple mech's arm ohPrimuswhatishedoing.  


"Cyc-clonus?" Tailgate gasped as the other took his hips and dragged him forward until their interface panels met. The intense heat radiating off the jet shocked him and he jumped, the bigger mech's stringent grasp all that kept him in place. O-oh.  


"You make such excellent noises, Tailgate," Cyclonus murmured huskily beside his audial, clawed fingers plucking expertly at every seam and divot within reach.  


Tailgate shivered and gasped, "Ngh, a-ah!" while the other wrapped one arm around his lower back and at the same time trailed a claw down the smooth front of his interface panel. Cyclonus hummed appreciatively at the responses it earned him. Lubricant pooled behind his valve covering and Tailgate shivered wantonly as the pleasant heat defused to the rest of his systems. Cooling vents roared uselessly through the steam. Cyclonus ground their hip plates together, and with no small degree of embarrassment, the resounding click of Tailgate's interface panel rattled through his own processor. He whined. One claw traced down the rim of the opening and dipped inside, eliciting a startled shriek from the small Bot. Dragging agonizingly slow over several sensitive nodes, Cyclonus pressed into one and carefully curled his finger. Tailgate's vents hitched and bucked into the pleasure, familiar need flaring hotly through his systems, and the claw reemerged a moment later coated in a sheen of pearlescent lubricants.  


Cyclonus brought his hand to his faceplate and gave it a lick. Tailgate shivered. His facemask heated with embarrassment and he looked away. There was a deep, resounding rumble from within Cyclonus's chassis, and the next thing Tailgate knew he was being lifted and then pinned high up on the wall under the running faucet, legs over either of the larger mech's shoulders. Duly flustered, Tailgate squirmed and tried to cover himself but the mech simply brushed his hands away with a dismissive grunt and held him firmly up against the wall. Tailgate cried out as a warm glossa circled the rim of his valve.  


Oh frag, oh frag oh fragohfragohfragohfrag—  


"C-Cyclonus," Tailgate squeaked. He tried silencing himself but quickly found it impossible as the big mech’s engine kicked on and began to make deep, resounding vibrations. Cyclonus's alt mode was a jet, and thus his engine was larger and far stronger than a simple ground unit like Tailgate. So, when he revved it up, it sent tremors quaking all through the minibot's frame, centered at the lip plates and glossa probing his valve. He cried out Cyclonus’s name and grabbed onto his crest and horn like lifelines. Thank Primus he either didn't notice or didn't care.  


Cyclonus held the smaller Bot steady, delving his glossa into that tight valve, engines roaring and reveling at all the wonderful sounds the other was making. Cute, Cyclonus thought briefly, shuddering as a small servo gripped hard around his horn. The heat and pressure behind his panel built rapidly the more Tailgate moaned, but he ignored it for now and laved his glossa over his surface node. The little mech bucked, curling around his helm and gripping him tightly with his legs. He chuckled while Tailgate's frame quivered, the vibrating hum of engines prompting so many excellent sounds. A low growl and the minibot lurched and cried out.  


"Cyclonus," Tailgate virtually wailed.  


Mm, that's what he liked to hear. Some careful shifting later and he freed one of his servos to tease the catch for Tailgate's spike housing. It snapped open without any further encouragement and pressurized easily against Cyclonus's helm. Rumbling lowly, he wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed.  


Tailgate shrieked, the combination of the glossa in his valve and the servo stroking his spike rapidly becoming too much. He knocked his helm back against the wall and shook uncontrollably under the cascade of hot water. A thought struck him and he looked down, still scarcely comprehending the sight of the old warrior between his legs. Words. R-right. How do words work?  


"Cyclonus, w-wait. What if—ngh! What if s-someone comes—comes i-in?" Tailgate stammered. "They'll see us."  


"Let them see," Cyclonus grated, savoring the tiny squeak he got pressing his thumb into the slit at the tip of Tailgate's spike. He ground his hips against the wall, more than a little frustrated when it gave him no relief.  


"Bu-b-but we ca—hah! Nh—Cyclonus, please. Please."  


"Fine," he growled, inwardly grateful for the chance to get his own problem taken care of.  


He carried the smaller mech behind a courtesy wall at the other side of the washroom and laid him across one of the racks. Warm water dribbled off their frames and Cyclonus wiped some residual lubricant from his lower faceplate, taking a moment to admire the lithe little Bot trembling beneath him. His interface panel clicked open and equipment extended readily, pulling Tailgate closer by the hips and laying his spike over the Bot's smaller one. The size difference was considerable, but not enough to make Cyclonus second guess himself.  


"Oh, Primus," Tailgate muttered, shuddering as their spikes ground slowly together.  


"Are you sure about this?" Cyclonus asked anyway. He knew the answer he would probably get, but he wanted the Bot to know the option was still on the table should he want it. As annoyed as the idea of being turned down at this point made him, he wasn't about to continue unless he knew the other was ready, too.  


Tailgate nodded slowly and the purple mech realigned their hips so the head of his spike pressed up against the gate of Tailgate's valve and carefully began to push inside. Vents hitched as his valve had to stretch and accommodate, and Cyclonus pulled him closer to meet halfway. It felt like a lot. Because it was. It was dizzying how big he was, but Tailgate didn't want him to stop, visor dim and dazed. Well-lubricated as he was, it barely hurt past a certain twinge, but his body reminded him that after six-million years of inactivity it was best to take things slow. He found himself wanting more, though. Like it was some terribly wonderful turn-on to be stretched to capacity like this.  


Eventually, Cyclonus made it almost completely to the hilt before his spike reached the very top of Tailgate's valve and could go no further. They stayed there, groaning softly, trembling, and venting hot air. There was a squeak from Tailgate as Cyclonus laid his servos on either side of the bench and began to thrust his hips slowly and shallowly. Small servos grabbed hold of his chest plate and whined pleasurably, feeling every little inch of movement from the other. Circuits lit up like livewires as Cyclonus's spike dragged over every node, every sensory receptor, and fired up nerve bundles he forgot even existed.  


"Cyclonus," Tailgate moaned. "Ngh! C-Cyclonus!"  


The larger mech chuckled and nuzzled into his neck, nibbling damp cables lightly. He rumbled deep in his chassis, earning a tiny gasp. "Tell me how you feel, Tailgate. Does it feel good? To have my spike inside of you?"  


Tailgate groaned incoherently, digits curling against his chest plate as he continued to move slowly in and out. "Y-yes. F-feels—feels go-good. Hah!"  


There was a grunt of acknowledgement followed by a soft squeal as Cyclonus thrust his hips a little sharper, groaning deeper himself. "Nn, good."  


The thrusting became a lot smoother as Tailgate's body adjusted, and Cyclonus began to push more forcefully, having to use less and less effort as the valve surrounding him lubricated properly. A low groan rolled through his chassis and Cyclonus's engine reignited. Tailgate arched high enough that their chest plates collided and squealed; a quick buck and Cyclonus caught his hips and held them tight, thrusting sharply just to watch the minibot squirm.  


The force of the vibrations shook Tailgate at his core, unbearably strong in his sensitive valve with the same effect turning back on Cyclonus as well. Pressing overtop the smaller mech, Cyclonus virtually enveloped him in his impressive shadow and pounded into him. Every thrust had the warrior striking the top of his valve, grinding over every node and setting his internal systems ablaze.  


"Cyclonus!" Tailgate cried out, processor swimming when a powerful servo closed around his spike and pumped it in tandem with his thrusts.  


He responded with a low, possessive growl that Tailgate felt in his deepest circuits, doing so many unspeakable things with his spike. That's it. He was going to lose his mind. How did this—? Nn! He just needed some help cleaning up. How did it turn into—? Tailgate stopped thinking as his caliper node was struck and he arched almost completely off the bench, clasping onto the edges just to keep from falling. Not that his partner would have let that happen. With Cyclonus working his spike like this—tweaking the head and pumping the short distance from top to bottom—how was he ever going to—?  


"Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag," Tailgate whined, visor dimmed and repeating the other’s name over and over.  


Cyclonus shivered, red optics half shuttered with pleasure watching the Bot beneath him writhe. The way he said his name like a mantra, like he was praying, worshipping, or begging. Either one, Cyclonus enjoyed the notion more than he reasonably should have. Tailgate just responded so well, and he felt so fragging good. Cyclonus wanted him to enjoy this, wanted to rock the minibot's world, but he could feel the heat and pressure swelling at the base of his spike and knew instinctively he didn't have much longer. Frag, he wanted this to last.  


Bending forward to be closer to Tailgate's audial, Cyclonus slid his arm beneath the other's knee joint and pulled it up, realigning their hips at a delicious new angle. He smirked at the way Tailgate responded to that, crying out his name, digging his small digits into his shoulder plates and shaking uncontrollably. There was electricity in the air. The combination of building charges changed the atmosphere and Cyclonus moaned thickly.  


"O-o-oh frag! What was—What was that?" Tailgate shuddered and Cyclonus thrusted again, harder.  


"Ngh, you like that?"  


"Y-yeah—ah! P-please, Cyclonus, more! I'm almost—I-I can feel—Nngh-uh!"  


"Nn, me, too."  


He couldn't keep this up much longer. Not with his vents cycling nothing but hot air. Not with Tailgate writhing and clutching and being so fragging good. Cyclonus's claws dug gashes into the bench, shredding the metal in long rows, mandibles clenched, and pounded into the smaller mech with raw abandon. Cooling units blasted, engine roared, shaking and struggling to maintain his composure.  


Much to his initial surprise, Tailgate reached the edge first. Blunt white digits scraped over Cyclonus's chest plate leaving pale scuff marks all down the purple enamel, lithe back struts bent in ways that would make most mechs cringe, legs hitched around violet hips, valve clenching and squeezing around the spike inside him, and he finally overloaded with the most amazing sound ever to grace Cyclonus's audials. He bucked into a careful hand and his spike burst, crying out, spraying a jet of hot transfluid between them.  


He trembled weakly from the heat and pleasure even as Cyclonus released his spike and grabbed his hips, still thrusting, still riding it out. The rippling of Tailgate's valve, pulling and clenching and sucking, milking his spike for his own overload eventually drew Cyclonus over as well. Heat and pressure erupted outward, and he curled forward and snarled. Hips slammed forward once, twice more, and he released heavily into the smaller mech, entire body rigid and tense. The rushing heat of transfluid quickly filled up what little space was left inside the shivering Bot and leaked back out with nowhere else to really escape to, leaving them both trembling and stunned.  


Coming back down from the high was slow. Overheated circuitry whicked the water on their frames to steam as the pleasant hum of white static gradually cleared, optics flickering back online. Joints were weak and shuddering from the excess charge, about the consistency of mush, and Tailgate squirmed and whined as Cyclonus carefully pulled out of him. An overflow of transfluid rushed out, and Tailgate heard a soft rumble emanating from the bigger mech's idling engine. It took a moment to realize he was chuckling.  


"W-what?" Tailgate stammered, faceplate heating up, afraid he was being made fun of.  


Cyclonus shook his helm slowly, leaned down, and startled the minibot by nuzzling into his cheek plate and breathing deeply through his intakes.  


"Having trouble reaching any other places?" Cyclonus asked in a low, rich timbre.  


Tailgate's optics brightened in what Cyclonus learned to recognize as joy, and the minibot wound his servos around the back of his neck and teased the length of a main fuel line. He rumbled, appreciative of the affectionate gesture, and thought about how he could get used to treatment like this.  


"Hmmm, if it isn't too much trouble," Tailgate hummed coyly, an undertone of mischievousness that made Cyclonus growl and optics dim approvingly. He dipped his helm down and nibbled the exposed wiring around Tailgate's neck and found himself once again admiring all those wonderful little noises the tiny blue Bot could make.  


He droned, "Mmm, not in the least, Tailgate. Not in the least."

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look this happened.  
> I may or may not have been listening to reruns of CrashBoomBanger’s recording of Tailgate moaning Cyclonus’s name while writing this. Shoosh.  
> I REGRET NOTHING


End file.
